“You gave me my seal,” Mehr said. Respectful, steady. “You gave me the choice of whom I will marry. Father, as an Ambhan woman, as your daughter, I say this with love and due honor: You cannot revoke my right to choose.”
Her father shook his head and muttered a curse under his breath.
“Sacred, Father,” she said. “This choice is sacred. And I choose to stay.”
“Those—creatures—aren’t a choice, Mehr. They’re an abomination.” His jaw clenched again, spasmodic, even as he tried to calm himself. “You are sheltered, daughter. I have kept you well protected, and that is as it should be. But you must accept that you know nothing about evil. You musttrustme.”
Mehr had never heard anyone speak of the mystics in such a manner. After a lifetime of being told they served the Empire, to give them thanks for their prayers, her father’s words shook her. But she couldn’t allow herself to tremble. She had to remain strong.
“I choose to stay,” Mehr repeated.
She would not bend. She would not cower. Her father cursed again, clenching a hand over his face, and Mehr stood straight and tall and waited for him to look at her. Her rage was a clean blade. She held it close.
“You don’t know what choice you’re making,” her father said finally. “You know nothing.”
“Then tell me what I should know,” said Mehr. “Tell me the truth about the mystics, Father. Why do you fear them, when so many others give thanks to them?” Her father was silent. She pressed on. “Give me the knowledge to make a wise choice.”
He shook his head. For a moment she was sure he would refuse, and that she had lost. But then he began to speak.
“We nobles speak our fears to one another in secret, Mehr,” he began slowly. “They are not for our women, or for the common folk. But we serve the Empire, and we know what the mystics are. They pray for the Empire’s continued growth and glory. Their prayers have power, Mehr. They bless us with good fortune and ensure that ill fortune never touches us. They ensure that our armies are never defeated and our crops grow without blight. For that, we give them thanks.” He paused. “But when they are angered, when the Maha demands they inflict justice on his behalf … Ah, Mehr! I have seen cities put to death at their word. I have seen plague and famine and slaughter fall on men at their whim. I have seen things you cannot imagine.”
There was awe in her father’s voice, mingled in with the hatred. A chill ran through Mehr. She thought of Usha lying dead, of missing Amrithi clans, of the mystics who could sweep away cities at a whim, who had come for Mehr, just Mehr, with her tainted Amrithi blood.
“The Emperor hates my mother’s kind. Why would his mystics want me, if he hates what I am?”
“I don’t know,” her father said curtly.
Your daughter’s name reached the Maha’s ears on the wings of a storm, the female mystic had said. Her words echoed in Mehr’s ears.
“I’m sorry, Father,” Mehr said quietly. “I know you never wanted this for me. And you’re not at fault.” Mehr was the one at fault—Mehr was the one who had brought the mystics down on them. Maryam had warned her. Lalita had told her to be careful. Her father had tried to send her away. If she had listened to Maryam, if she had changed herself, made different choices …
But it was too late. The mystics were here.
“You should send Arwa away in my place,” Mehr said. Her voice came out of her brittle as glass. “Let Maryam accompany her. Please, Father. She has Amrithi blood. She isn’t safe in Irinah anymore.” She paused, and swallowed. “Send her away so she can begin again.”
Beyond Irinah, Arwa would never cross paths with daiva or storms or Amrithi again. She would lose her inheritance from their mother swiftly, painlessly. She would never know how much she had lost.
If that was the price of Arwa surviving, thriving—well. So be it.
Her father barely seemed to be listening.
“I can’t allow it, Mehr,” he said, his voice low. “I can’t.”
“I told you,” Mehr said. Her voice shook. But she didn’t look away. “It’s my choice. My sacred choice. And I choose to stay.”
Mehr had no idea what her father said to his wife, but Maryam was ready to leave before dawn. Although her eyes were rimmed with exhaustion, she sat on her dais in the hub of the Receiving Hall and ordered her servants around with deadly calm, arranging for clothes and jewels to be packed and for a suitable palanquin to be prepared for the long journey to the borders of Hara. Maryam herself was dressed in the simplest clothing Mehr had ever seen her wear, nothing but a plain tunic and trousers, a heavy shawl wrapped loosely around her head and shoulders. She had two guardswomen in attendance, ready to accompany her. Everything was in order.
The only problem was Arwa.
Arwa did not want to go. She was in floods of furious tears, and nothing—not Nahira’s firm words, not Maryam’s gentle cajoling, not bribery in the form of sweets and gifts—could calm her. Mehr watched from the edge of the bustle in the Hall, still in the glittering weight of her Lotus Hall finery, as Maryam stroked Arwa’s hair and murmured gently against her ear. Arwa didn’t calm. She clung to Maryam. She screamed.
When Mehr couldn’t stand it any longer she crossed the Hall, slipping between hurrying servants. She stopped before the dais and gave her stepmother a perfunctory bow. Maryam glared daggers at her.
“Let me talk to her,” Mehr said. “I can calm her, Mother.”
“Leave us be,” Maryam ordered, her hand still on Arwa’s hair, still and proprietary. “You’re only upsetting her.”
“I can help,” Mehr said. “And—I would like to say good-bye.”
